


No Blue Without Yellow

by ClowderOfCats



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: A little angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Making This Up As I Go, a lot of fluff, credence is a painter, graves is an art gallery director, no idea of the intricacies of art galleries, the art au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 18:52:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10367154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClowderOfCats/pseuds/ClowderOfCats
Summary: Gallery Director Percival Graves’ day so far had been a string of mild annoyances.





	

**Author's Note:**

> “There is no blue without yellow and without orange.” – Vincent van Gogh
> 
> So this is the first fic I've written in about 8 years. Came about after a prompt from a friend, just to see what I came up with.
> 
> And now I have a whole entire AU based around Arist!Credence and Art Director!Graves, so there will probably be a prequel in the future.
> 
> Uploading in chapters to spur myself to write the rest lol
> 
> All mistakes are mine, hope it makes some semblance of sense...

Gallery Director Percival Graves’ day so far had been a string of mild annoyances. First, he’d had to drag himself from the warmth of his bed on a cold, spring morning, and, despite his best efforts, had disturbed the slumbering figure of Credence beside him (who had mumbled that he’d wanted to get up early anyway to work on his paintings). Then, traffic had made him late for work, he’d tripped up the steps to the entrance, had to ask THREE different people to please not touch the sculptures, and a sudden torrential downpour on his lunch break had left him soaked to the bone within the five minutes it took him to walk from the MACUSA Gallery of Modern Art, to Kowalski’s Fine Baked Goods.

All in all, he had not had a very good day.

And it only got worse later on that afternoon, when an email arrived, explaining in very few words, that a key financial sponsor of MACUSA’s upcoming Winter Exhibition wished to withdraw.

Percival read the e-mail with a lump in his throat and a lead weight in his stomach. He tried to swallow as his mind raced with possible solutions. Credence was meant to display a piece in the exhibition, and, being the only unknown name on the programme, his work would surely be the first to get cut without the proper financial backing.

Percival’s heart sank. It was entirely his fault. He had, after all, been responsible for securing the sponsor in the first place.

The sponsor himself, an eccentric European entrepreneur called Grindelwald, had at first seemed thrilled to have the opportunity to offer his support. He had begun correspondence vibrantly, he was friendly, well spoken, and had a keen interest in art. Percival had even, proudly, sent the man a few photographs of Credence’s work, which had garnered quite a positive response. Though, if Grindelwald had seemed a bit too enamoured with the self-portrait in particular, Percival didn’t mention it.

He’d remained open to suggestions sent his way regarding the exhibition, though they had, over time, become more and more centred around Credence in particular. Grindelwald had even offered to privately fly Credence out to his Washington estate, stating that “a change of scenery could do the young artist good, give him a fresh perspective”. The only condition was that Credence would go alone.

Of course this hadn’t sat well with Percival, unwilling to send his young lover across the country, and into the hands of a stranger. Thankfully, Credence had also balked at the idea. In the end, Percival had made up an excuse as to why Credence was unable to fulfil that particular request. Though the seeming unassuming response of “such a shame, I would have truly enjoyed to observe your boy at work in the flesh,” still managed to make Percival shudder with unease.

That had been some weeks ago now. Despite his best efforts, the correspondence emails had eventually dwindled, and as unpleasant as their last few exchanges had been, he never expected full withdrawal.

It didn’t matter how many times Percival re-read the email displayed on his screen, the words remained the same: “Due to unforeseen circumstances, we have had to reconsider, and, unfortunately, withdraw our offer of exhibition funding. Apologies for any inconveniences caused.” 

So with the mess on his hands being his, he had no choice but to fix it. Which meant having to stay late, and cancel the dinner plans he had made for that evening. It was with reluctance that he picked up the phone to, steeling himself as he dialled Credence’s number, “Hi, love. I’m… I’m sorry, but I have to work late. Something’s come up and…”

“It’s okay, Percy, don’t worry,” Credence cut him off on the other end, his tone was warm but Percival couldn’t help but imagine seeing the disappointment in his eyes, “I’ll call the restaurant,” Credence continued, “let them know we can’t make it.”

Percival pinched the bridge of his nose, “Credence, I really am. Sorry. I know you’ve been looking forward to this, we’ve had that reservation for weeks…”

There was movement at the entrance to his office, and Percival glanced up to see Seraphina Picquery, the Gallery Manager, leant in his doorway. He gave her a despairing look as he wrapped up the phone call, “You’re sure? Okay… Yeah. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you. Bye.” 

He hung up and threw the phone onto the desk. “Grindelwald bailed,” he told Picquery, his hands coming up to rub at his temples, “And now I’ve had to bail on dinner. I’m… completely fucked.” Picquery gave him a sympathetic look, but he knew she couldn’t help him this time, “I used up my favour quota when I submitted your unknown’s name for the programme, Perce,” she told him, stepping into the room. Her tone was neutral, but the use of his nickname betrayed her fondness.

They had worked together for many years, and while their friendship was firmly established, and perhaps quite infamous within New York’s art community, they always endeavoured to keep a strictly professional relationship within gallery walls. That didn’t, however, quell the accusations of favouritism from their peers. Her securing a place for Credence, at Percival’s request, was the straw that almost broke the camel’s back for most of them.

Percival nodded, “I know,” he said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done. I’ll… find something. Someone…”

“Don’t stay too late. Night security doesn’t appreciate the alarms being tripped at midnight.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked away.

He gave a small, somewhat strained, smile as she left, and turned back to his computer, fingers flying across the keys, gathering names and numbers before proceeding to make several, increasingly desperate sounding, and ultimately fruitless phone calls.

When he finally clicked the phone back into its cradle it was already past 7:00pm, and the lights outside his office were off, as he made his way down the hall to the coffee machine in the break room. He was greeted by the security guards, who were filtering in for their night shifts, and he all but collided with a short, brunette fellow, who’s full cup spilled over, splashing fresh, hot coffee down the front of Percival’s pristine white shirt.

“Fuck!” Percival jumped back, pulling the burning cotton away from his skin.

The guard, a short, weasel-y fellow called Abernathy, had yelped out an apology and grabbed a handful of paper towels to help, but Percival decided he’d had enough. “Leave it,” He growled through gritted teeth, dismissing Abernathy with a wave of his hand. Taking the incident as a sign it was time to go home, he returned to his office long enough to don his still damp coat, grab his briefcase, and lock up, before sweeping down the dim halls towards to parking garage.


End file.
